


One Voice Was Heard

by CountryDogLover



Category: Sherlock (TV)
Genre: Alternate Meeting, Dreams, Drug Withdrawal, John is in medical school, John is there too, M/M, Native American symbolism, Original Characters - Freeform, Sherlock in rehab, Therapy, Wilderness Survival, but in Montana, tags and rating subject to change, younger John and Sherlock
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2014-11-30
Updated: 2015-01-07
Packaged: 2018-02-27 15:20:43
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 3
Words: 5,551
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/2697728
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/CountryDogLover/pseuds/CountryDogLover
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>“Montana!?”<br/>Silence and a pointed look from the other side of the desk.<br/>“You can’t be serious Mycroft. Montana. America? That’s the best you could do for a rehab facility? The middle of fucking nowhere hick town America?”<br/>Sherlock couldn’t believe his luck. Or lack thereof.</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. Chapter One

**Author's Note:**

> Title from Billy Gilman song "One Voice".  
> Not brit-picked, nor do I think all mistakes will be caught, so please point out any mistakes of that nature, as I'd be happy to fix them.  
> Enjoy, and thank you!

“Montana!?”

Silence and a pointed look from the other side of the desk.

“You can’t be serious Mycroft. Montana. America? That’s the best you could do for a rehab facility? The middle of fucking nowhere hick town America?”

Sherlock couldn’t believe his luck. Or lack thereof. He knew beforehand to not underestimate his brother when it came to his little habit with cocaine, but he didn’t honestly believe he would be shipped off to the colonies for rehab.

“Yes Sherlock, I am completely serious. This program came highly recommended to me by Dr. Elison, one of the top adolescent addiction specialist in the field. You will spend four months there as you are a special case for them. They normally do not accept patients until after withdrawal symptoms are completed. And this time please do try not to escape. Montana is not above shooting those on the run.” Mycroft stood, straightened his waistcoat before practically herding his younger brother from his office. “Your flight leaves tonight; best get you to the airport.”

Sherlock spent the ride in silence. He had nothing to say. He was already in hell.

God he wished he had a hit…

Mycroft being Mycroft got them to the plane without the hassle of baggage checking (not like Sherlock had much anyways) or security. He faced his brother for one last scowl before he turned on his heel and marched onto the plane. One of Mycroft’s men accompanied him down the ramp, probably to insure that he actually boarded the plane.

He slumped into his seat (not even first class; Mycroft really was attempting to punish him) and pointedly ignored the flight attendants and passengers around him. With little else to do (because really, like he was really going to watch an inflight movie) Sherlock found himself asleep within an hour of takeoff.

**********

Sherlock dreamed…

_Run! His brain was screaming at him, making him race, push himself faster and faster. It was dark, there was a thick fog all around, and Sherlock couldn’t tell if he was running from something… or towards it._

_There was a low moan from behind him, causing him to stumble. The fog began to take shape, becoming blacker and solid, and the mass was reaching long fingers out. The crooked fingers beckoned Sherlock forward._

_It was then that the warm sun rose and the earth began to shake…_

_************_

The flight attendant who shook him awake upon landing nearly got a fist to her face (cheating on her husband with a fellow attendant, the blonde woman with gluten intolerance judging by the hair on her uniform) before he remembered where he was.

As there are no international flights directly into Montana, he is forced to land first in Seattle-Tacoma airport before transferring to a flight in Helena. As he debarked, he wondered at how easy it would be just to walk out of this airport and stay in Seattle. Similar climate to London, certainly rampant with crime…

Before a full plan could formulate in Sherlock’s head, he was grabbed roughly by the elbow and ushered through the airport.

Or at least one of his endless minions. He obviously hadn’t been trusted to even make it to the facility before attempting an escape. He wondered vaguely if any MI6 agents would be implanted with him just to keep an eye on Sherlock.

The plane barely had turned the seatbelt light off before it was on again signaling their arrival. Other than the agent babysitting him and Sherlock, there were only six other passengers.

_And they call this an airport…_

He collected his suitcase from the cart that had been brought in under the watchful eye of the agent. Not like he would make a run for it here. Where would he even go? From what Sherlock could remember of American geography (which isn’t much; dreadful place) Montana was like the epicenter of nothingness, only to be surrounded by more nothingness. There was nowhere to run.

A pickup truck pulled around the corner, stopping in front of Sherlock and his shadow.

“You Sherlock Holmes?” A rough, uncultured voice called out the open passenger window.

Sherlock sighed, nodded. Complete and utter hell.

************

The only thing Sherlock would remember from the car ride to the facility was its length. He couldn’t imagine it took longer than six hours to drive anywhere and still be in the same state. It was late November, and the sun set early, casting the road into a series of shadows and darkness. They could drive for a quarter hour before seeing another vehicle on the highway.

He ignored the body guard and the driver completely, even though the latter tried several times to engage him in mindless small talk: what’s England like? How’s your family like? Any siblings? On and on and on…

Finally after an hour off of the highway, instead trekking in what was surely an uninhabited forest (may be Mycroft was just sending him into the middle of nowhere to be killed; be much easier and cheaper than rehab. Sherlock couldn’t decide if he would rather just be murdered than endure this nightmare), a light was visible ahead.

It proved to be a porch light of a large cabin of what Sherlock assumed was the rehab centre.

The driver was speaking again. “This is where you’ll spend the first week. Get to know the other boys, get lessons in basic survival, attend –“

“Basic survival?” That caught Sherlock’s attention: being from the city, he could take care of himself. What could these hicks possibly teach him about survival that he hadn’t already learned?

“You city folk are all the same. Think you’re gonna be able to punch a bear and run away? How about light a fire without no matches? Cook a meal, pitch a tent, wrap a broken ankle? You got a lot to learn, Brit!” With that the man climbed out and moved around the back to grab out Sherlock’s suitcase.

Sherlock exited the truck too, slamming the door even though he knew that people were sleeping in the cabin at this hour. _Good, let them wake up…_

A baby began to cry. The driver gave him a woeful look before hefting the bag and heading towards the door, Sherlock and the shadow trailing behind.

The cabin looked old, and made completely out of logs. An American flag jutted proudly from the porch covering; inside the cabin was much the same. The wood floor was worn but clean. The furniture look to be home created, probably a great grandfather of the owner built it along with the house…

Sherlock was filing away information (how quickly would a wood structure like this take to burn to the ground; what would the best accelerant be) when a woman with a whimpering baby on her shoulder stormed in. She was roughly the same age as the driver, and had darker skin than him: married and Native American. And angry. Very angry.

“Is this the boy that woke my baby?” She spat at her husband before whirling on Sherlock, stabbing a finger in the air at him. “What is wrong with you? I thought taking on an English boy this one would come with manners. But waking a baby? Just to be _spiteful_? At least none of the other boys had ever done that.” She gave him a withering look before turning a much softer tone to the baby, moving out of the room as she did so. Sherlock was almost offended at being degraded to something lower than an American, but he didn’t have much time to think of a scathing insult before being lead into a rustic kitchen by the driver (owner of the place?).

“Sit down.” Sherlock sat at the table. In the bright light of the kitchen Sherlock could make out more of the man’s features. He was a large man, well over six foot with large shoulders to match. His nose was also broad and his mouth had a natural frown to it, but his deep brown eyes were kind enough. Brown hair could just be seen sticking out from underneath a baseball cap on his head. “Now, I know it’s late and the last thing you want to be hearing is a long list of rules. However, Imma lay out the basics before showing you your room. You’ll be woken by 6:00, breakfast at 6:15, and then you head out to help in the stables. After that my wife, Shappa, and you will have your first assessment. Don’t pull that sour face at me boy, it’ll happen whether you like it or not. Now, let’s get you settled.”

As this didn’t require confirmation, Sherlock didn’t say anything. Up two flights of stairs he was stopped in front of what was to be assumed a bedroom door. The owner turned to him again, whispering “you’ll be sharing with one of our junior assistants, as do all the other boys. He will be here to help make sure you stay on time and task for the first few days. Don’t wake the boy; see you for breakfast.”

With that, Sherlock was left in the hallway alone. He took a deep sigh before opening the door to the bedroom. It creaked loudly, as did the floor when Sherlock moved inside. There were two slender beds pressed to each side of the room, with a small chest at the ends of each. There was an obvious figure in the bed to the right, but all Sherlock could make out in the light from the hall was spiky blond hair sticking out from the top of the duvet.

Sherlock, as silently as possible in such an archaic home, made to get ready for bed. He crawled under the quilt, shivered slightly at the cold press of sheets, but soon enough he fell asleep to the sounds of another person’s deep breathing in the bed across the room.


	2. Chapter Two

Sherlock dreamed…

_He was alone in a large field, yellow grass up to his knees. He could not see beyond the edges of the open area, and his eyes went out of focus as he tried to concentrate on anything past the grassland._

_There was a rustle behind him. Sherlock whirled to confront the noise and came nose to nose with a giant bear standing on it’s hind legs._

_He cringed, expecting a blow from a mighty paw._

_Sherlock raised his head again, and the bear was still standing there. It was on all fours, its massive head tilted up to look at Sherlock’s face. His (Sherlock assumed it was a male) light brown fur was reflecting the light of an unseen sun and looked soft to the touch. Sherlock didn’t dare._

_The bear’s eyes were focused on Sherlock, not weary but not quite trusting either. They both watched the other, unsure if they should do something. Run, stay, fight, kill, protect… touch…_

_Sherlock couldn’t stand it anymore. He reached out, determined to stroke that seemingly soft fur of the bear…_

He woke before his fingers could make contact.

“Hey mate, time to get up. Breakfast is almost ready,” a distinctly London accent told him. Had Montana all been a dream? Maybe he was still in England, in some fancy rehab centre there.

He opened his eyes and knew his reality. Montana. Not a nightmare.

There was a boy, well, rather a young man a few years older than Sherlock, looming over him. The same one from the bed last night, if the hair was anything to go by. It was still sticking out at all angles, as if he had just gotten up himself and hadn’t smoothed it down. He had a still sleepy look on his face, but his blue eyes were alert and questioning. Oh, Sherlock had been staring.

Sherlock nodded, not really knowing what to say. The mystery guy turned away, apparently satisfied with it. Sherlock got out of his bed, immediately regretting it. If he hadn’t noticed how warm it was under his blankets, he was certainly noticing the near freezing temperature of the room when he lifted them.

The other boy chuckled. “I’d say you’d get used to it, but I don’t think anyone ever could get used to this kind of cold. It’s almost consistently in the negatives this time of year.”

“You’re English.” Sherlock was baffled to hear such a familiar accent in such an unfamiliar place. What are the chances he would find anyone from the mother country in the middle of fucking nowhere?

“That I am.” He didn’t expand the statement. Sherlock didn’t believe in chances.

“Did Mycroft send you out here? Are you another watchdog?” He crossed his arms, ready to rip the spy to pieces, but the boy just turned around with a curious expression.

“What the hell is a Mycroft? And I’m nobody’s watchdog.” With that, he snatched up a toothbrush and tube of paste before exiting the room.

Sherlock furrowed his brow, looking around the room in better light than he could afford last night. There wasn’t much to observe, but Sherlock did what he did best.

He could clearly see that his temporary roommate had been there for a while now. There was the casual placement of personal items; a blue and purple striped scarf tied around the bed post (clearly from a family relation, he couldn’t imagine the blond picking it out for himself), a jumper lay out on the bed, and a small picture frame sat on the small window sill. The mystery man (Sherlock supposed he would have to learn his name at some point) was smiling into the camera, his arms around two young women. One was clearly a family member, a sister most likely but could be a cousin. The other was probably a girlfriend, but he would need more data to determine that.

Mystery man returned, scratching at his jaw that had at least three days’ worth of growth on it.

Sherlock stuck his hand out. “We haven’t been properly introduced. Sherlock Holmes.”

“John Watson.” John took his hand. They didn’t so much a shake as grip before releasing quickly as jolt of energy jumped up both their arms.

“Ouch. Static electricity. It’s everywhere out here. Just another thing that you probably won’t get used to.” John turned and pulled the jumper over his head. “Now hurry up, can’t you smell breakfast?”

Sherlock opened his suitcase which he had set on the chest last night. In place of his usual wardrobe of perfectly tailored suits were rough jeans, new, and thick working shirts, also new. There were also wool socks (he missed his sock index), heavy looking boots, and strange cotton type pants. They weren’t quite pajama pants…

“Long johns,” John answered his unasked question. “You’re going to want to wear those today. You came in on what is looking like the last warm day. If the temperature gets above 1 degree today, I’ll eat my sock.”

He then turned and left Sherlock to change into his new (ghastly) attire.

Sherlock felt incredibly out of place as he went down the stairs to the kitchen in his new clothes. There was a loud ruckus emanating from there. He kept adjusting his ill-fitting shirt as he took in the kitchen: Shappa (if he remembered right) was standing at the stove, frying something in a large cast iron skillet. On the table, there was stacks of all kinds of food: pancakes, scrambled eggs, sausage patties, hash browns, and scones. And sitting around the table was the source of the noise. Sherlock counted fifteen boys, all of them shouting and laughing. He spotted John across the kitchen, the baby from last night in a high chair next to him, and made his way there. The noise quieted a bit as he fully entered the room, but no one paid much mind to him. John smiled at him before turning his attention back to the baby.

“Now come on gorgeous, you love applesauce. One more bite, just for me, love?” John crooned, and for a split second Sherlock thought it was directed at him, before he noticed the baby spoon in John’s hand. John was feeding her, or attempting to. There was applesauce running down the babies chin and onto the flower covered bib, so Sherlock couldn’t be sure how much the babe had actually ingested.

Shappa finally turned around and spotted Sherlock, sending a slight glare in his direction before depositing a mountain of bacon in the middle of the table.

“Not gonna find any beans and toast out here. And they eat this every morning too.” John said, not turning from the baby.

Shappa interrupted any question he might have posed to John by announcing that the boys may now dig into breakfast. Sherlock expected a frenzy of out of control grabbing for the closest substance and turned over bowls and plates, however there was nothing of the kind. Several boys grabbed the towering platter closest to them, placing a few items on their personal plate before handing it over to the next boy. Sherlock was handed the hash browns first. Another quick glance at Shappa made him grab the serving fork and put some of the fried potatoes on his plate. He then handed it to John before receiving the next food plate.

It was a form of organized chaos. They all ate quickly, although Sherlock didn’t know how much time they had before they would be put to work.

Sherlock poked at his potatoes more than ate them and spent the time deducing his tablemates.

Eleven of them were addicts (five of them to alcohol, three to cocaine (including Sherlock makes four), two to prescription drugs, one to methamphetamines), probably sent here against their will like Sherlock. They ranged in age from 15 (hooked on Vicodin, probably stole it from his elderly grandmother) to probably 21 (alcoholic that thinks because he is over the legal age limit he shouldn’t have to be here, but has the look of an addict of many years; most likely the product of an abusive alcoholic parent: his mother if the scratch-like scars on his neck are any indication).  

The other three were like John, not recovering addicts that's for sure. These boys were all older than the addict group, he’d say 22 to 24 years old. The oldest looking two were clearly psychology students, probably here to learn how to help in the treatment of addicts. Helping out here must be a requirement for gaining a degree. The third a nursing student, most likely here for the same reason.

And John. Confounding John. English John. Most of the other boys had the accents consistent with the area (the exception of three of them, he couldn’t place them, but they were American accents for sure), but what would possess John to come to the middle of the wilderness to help at a rehabilitation centre.

_Focus on the facts, Sherlock…._

Fact 1: he’s English, from London. Attending Uni in London, most probable.

Fact 2: he has a sister and girlfriend (?) back there.

Fact 3: . . .

Sherlock couldn’t gather much more than that. He wasn’t a psychology student, but he was studying something in the medical profession. Doctor perhaps?

But that doesn’t make sense.

Sherlock was going to need more to get to the bottom of the John Watson.

********

Sherlock’s potatoes had gone cold by the time that the owner (Sherlock couldn’t remember his name) stomped into the kitchen. All the boys scarfed down that last of their food before orderly getting up to stack their used dishes beside the sink. Sherlock followed suit, trailing behind. He noticed that John stayed sitting, wiping down the baby from the applesauce fiasco.

In his distraction, a large coat was thrust into his arms drawing his eyes forward. It was the owner.

“You’re gonna need this,” he gruffed, looking expectantly.

“Thank you...uh.” Sherlock tried to think of his name.

“Peter. And you’re welcome. Let’s hope your soft city hands make it through the day.” He turned and started out the back door.

**********

The stables were in the same style as the house, but were clearly built long after the house was. There were seven horses inside, and it was divided between the boys who would do what job. Being his first day Sherlock was assigned to clean the tack first and they would work him up to mucking stalls and throwing hay.

Two other boys were to be working with him too. They introduced themselves as Nathan and Mike. Sherlock was instructed by Mike on what he was supposed to do (mindless work really; an infant could do this) before being left in silence to work.

In the past 24 hours, and 34 hours and 12 minutes since his last hit, he has had more than a fleeting thought of craving cocaine. Since he had started using it 15 months before, he had working on controlling his mind’s response to the substance, perfecting the dosage to allow for the maximum effects with the least amount of actual using.

Sherlock abhorred track marks.

Most addicts would feel an immediate craving once the effects wore off; Sherlock knew himself to be above that. He could go almost a week without truly feeling the _need_ to shoot up.

But now, sitting in a cold, smelly barn in the middle of nowhere Montana, Sherlock could practically feel his mind shaking with want. He needed that stimulus, that eraser of boredom. The beautiful feeling that raced along his nerves, making him hyperaware of his very fingertips and ever neuron in his mind alive with unstoppable energy.

Well, until the drug began to wear off…

His vision was starting to get blurry, staring at the cloth in his hand. How long had they been at this? Had to have been several hours now. He was shivering but that was probably from the cold. Although he had put on the coat Peter handed him, his head and hands were still uncovered and susceptible to the November air. Sherlock’s eyelids began to droop, and all he wanted was to be back under that horrible quilt and sleep.

“Hey man. You all right?” Mike (was it Mike? Yes, the pretty one, psychology student… native from Montana) asked.

Sherlock stared at him a bit, needing to analyze each word and find the meanings. The only words readily accessible were sleep and… maybe it was only sleep.

Sherlock’s head snapped up, unaware that it had even dropped down a bit. Mike was holding his shoulder, propping him up. He was saying something but Sherlock couldn’t care much about that. He could feel unconsciousness slipping out of the corners of his mind, seeping down along each fibre in his brain. It dragged him down and down…

Until he was being lifted up and up.

How odd a feeling. Sherlock opened his eyes (when did they close? Oh who cares…) to see he had been picked up and was being moved.

His eyes snapped open again (stop closing, damn it!). Were they taking him out into the woods? Was this some crazy ritual in Montana? Mycroft had said something about getting shot… Sherlock didn’t want to be shot!

He began to struggle the best he could. His arms weren’t quite moving as well as he’d like, weighted down by fatigue. There were noises flying all around him, but he couldn’t focus enough to comprehend anything.

The last thing he saw before he passed out from exhaustion was the little blond English man (John? Yes John…) rushing up beside him. Then only oblivion.  


	3. Chapter Three

Sherlock dreamed…

_Dry sand scraped the bottoms of his feet, uncomfortably ingraining itself between Sherlock’s toes. It is warm sand, but not unbearable. The sun is bright, per usual, burning his eyes causing him to squint to see his surroundings._

_Or lack of._

_There is nothing in view. No defining features to the land, just endless sand, flat in all directions. No wind kicked the sand up into the dry air._

_Perfect._

_Deciding that any direction is a good direction, Sherlock started walking. He wore nothing but a pair of cargo shorts, and the sun felt like it was starting to bake his skin. It didn’t seem to be moving, perpetually above his head no matter how far or long he walked._

_At least he will be evenly cooked on both sides…_

_His mind refused to think on anything specific, too hazy from the bright light and endless monotonous scenery. This is how he missed the stone and tripped, pitching forward and landing on the hot sand._

_He turned, surprised that there was something there at all. He had been wandering this desert for what seemed like years with not a single object or creature. But it wasn’t a stone at all. Uncurling from its hard shell, an armadillo peered at him with dark eyes. The long snout twitched a bit before quickly curling back inside._

_Within his next blink, everything changed. Well, not everything. Sherlock was still in a desert, the sun was still roasting him from its high perch, but there was now things scattered about the sand. Rocks, some empty, many with lizards sitting atop. They all erringly faced him, blinking in unison._

_Sherlock’s arms were a dark pink now, already peeling in places. Is this his brains way of making a metaphor? Comparing his skin to that of a lizard? Or perhaps his whole persona? Wouldn’t be the first time he was called cold blooded…_

_Now that he was aware he was dreaming (and really, the cargo shorts should have alerted him to that long ago) Sherlock tried to wake himself._

_The desert just seemed to get hotter in response. His skin was a vicious red, and his feet were scraped raw and bleeding. The red on the sand was unnerving._

_He kept trying to wake up, push himself towards consciousness and out of this quickly disintegrating hell, but winds kicked up them, sand swirling in the air around him, catching in his hair and eyes. The lizards still sat on their rocks, undisturbed by the quickly changing environment around them._

_A loud BOOM in the far off distance attempted to draw Sherlock’s attention, but he could hardly open his eyes to try and see what could have caused it. A growing heat was now scorching his face, the intensity threatening to rip his skin from his very body…_

_That was until the most dramatic change of all, as it was no longer excruciatingly hot but unimaginably cold._

_“He’s gaining consciousness, I think.”_

_That voice. Calm, authoritative, and completely in control. That was a voice Sherlock wanted to follow, but he couldn’t find it anymore amongst the ice currently seizing his body…_

_“Come on, Sherlock, wake up. That fever spike had me worried, but I need you to wake up now.”_

_The unbearable cold was receding, and the voice was gaining strength in his mind. He latched onto the mutterings, finally letting it drag him to the surface and break the dream…_

*******

It hurt to open his eyes. They felt fused shut with sleep and crusted moisture, and even the dim light did nothing for his headache that threatened to split his skull.

He must have moaned or made a noise because his roommate turned and caught him awake.

“Oh thank God. Gave me quite a scare there, mate. Hitting a 40C fever is a bit not good.” The words were said with a soft smile and scanning eyes. Probably looking for an additional symptoms. Sherlock was too tired to respond. He just wanted to sleep again. They wouldn’t drop a sleeping man into the woods or make him work…

His eyes drooped, taking him away from the pretty blond at his bedside…

*******

Sherlock dreamed…

_He was getting sick of these nature motifs in his dreams._

_This time he found himself standing in a moss covered swamp. It reminded him of the wetlands behind his home where he could be found collecting samples from when he was a child. His mother would only chuckle and question him about what he had found when he returned home, trousers soaked and pockets stuffed with jars._

_They were fond memories, ones followed by hot chocolate and his father’s warm laughter when he exclaimed running through the house about a new discovery._

_This swamp wouldn’t be followed by any of those things._

_Mainly because this was a dream._

_Which explained giant moose grazing beside him. Fascinating._

_The creature didn’t seem to mind Sherlock’s presence there as he (there was strong evidence of a male bull, even an idiot could see that much) dipped his head down to gather more food from the water. Sherlock was rooted to the spot, not out of fear, but out of a complete inability to move. He wanted reach out, to see how close he could get to the moose. So many questions were whirling in his head: did moose spook easily? How much damage could one this size do? What would the antlers feel like under his fingers?_

_But all he could do was watch as the moose made further headway on his meal in the swamp…_

******

The next time Sherlock came to consciousness, the room was completely dark. A soft exhale came from his left.

Sherlock didn’t turn his head, this was easy enough to deduce. Night time, and he must be out of physical danger otherwise the (he was almost certain) medical student wouldn’t have left vigil over Sherlock. He seemed that kind of person: selfless, self-sacrificing, devoted until the job was done to the utmost standard of his abilities.

The kind of guy that makes everyone around him look bad without trying.

But he also didn’t strike Sherlock as the kind of man that would gloat about that, or feel superior to others because of it. Quite the opposite, John probably got on with every person in his vicinity, making them feel good about themselves and so on with the sentimental drivel.

 

Tired of being in bed, and not feeling so tired at the moment, Sherlock got out of the bed. He had been stripped down to his underclothes while he had been unconscious so he dug some pajama clothes out and put them on as quietly as possible. His bladder was full and his mouth was dry, so Sherlock cracked the door open and stepped into the hallway.

The house was quiet, lights dimmed, but it didn’t seem eerie the way films made creaky houses at night seem. It was just another night in the middle of the Montana wilderness for these (arguably crazy) people.

In the bathroom down the hall, Sherlock did his business and drank a glass of water from the tap, then another when one didn’t prove sufficient.

Sated and still not tired (although Sherlock knew that stage was not over yet) he made his way downstairs. Coming upon the living room, a roaring fire was contained in the old brick fireplace and the soft creaks of an old wooden rocking chair were the only sounds.

“Well, come on in boy.” Shappa sat with her sleeping baby, shifting slightly to indicate where Sherlock should sit. He did. He had a feeling that he wouldn’t get many chances with this woman. He was stubborn in his ways, but even Sherlock knew not to upset a formidable woman like Shappa too much. “You know,” she started, voice soft, “Peter is very unhappy. Apparently your brother forgot to mention that you hadn’t already gone through withdrawal yet. We normally never let someone so fresh off the addiction into the facility: bad for the boy, bad for the other patients, and with the baby, you should feel grateful that we had John around to help take care of you during the worst of it, because I wouldn’t have been able to.”

Sherlock sat in silence, just gazing into the fire for a while. He had never gone through the complete process before of withdrawal, always been able to find the drug again to push away the need. He knew he wasn’t completely clear of it now, but there was a sense that now that the worst was over he never wanted to experience that again.

“I will be sure to tell him thank you when he wakes in the morning,” Sherlock whispered, not wanting to repeat waking the baby. He’d rather wake a dragon before doing that again.

“That’s a boy. Now, since you’ve been out of it for a few days, you missed the leave date for the survival portion of this therapy. You’ll have to wait until they return in three weeks, then another week after that, before you get to go. And since our labour here at the house is limited with most of the boys and Peter gone, you’re going to help pick up the slack.” The baby snuffled a bit, and Shappa stood up smoothly. “It’s still early tonight, so go back to bed and get a good night’s rest, because tomorrow, we’re putting you back to work.”

With that she walked out the room, leaving Sherlock to follow her orders. He was back in bed and asleep before he was even aware he had moved to do so.


End file.
